It was now spring, a verdant, lush May. During her six months at Montargis, Nell’s life had regained a measure of stability. She had won for herself powerful partisans in the French King and his Queen. To Henry and Eleanor’s dismay, Louis and Marguerite not only made Nell and her sons welcome at the French court, they urged Henry repeatedly to make peace with his sister, to restore her dower rights in the Pembroke estates. Henry so far remained obdurate, but it was a comfort to Nell to know that she was not friendless, that in France and in England there were still those willing to speak out on her family’s behalf.
Nell had never been a worrier—until Evesham. Now she spent long, sleepless nights, brooding over what the future held for her children. Her two younger sons seemed to be adjusting to their loss. She’d sent Richard to the court of Simon’s kinsman, the Count of Bigorre, and the reports she’d been getting were encouraging; with the resiliency of youth, Richard was applying himself to the lessons of knighthood. Amaury, too, appeared to be adapting himself to their changed fortunes. He was living in Paris, and planned to enter the University of Padua once Nell was able to arrange for his expenses.
But Nell could take no consolation in the plight of her other sons. For them she could do little, for she could not provide what they most needed: freedom for Guy, absolution for Bran. Nor had she been successful in easing her daughter’s pain. Ellen was a stranger to her now. Gone was the blithe, carefree chatterbox, the affectionate imp who’d been her father’s pet, her family’s spoiled, cherished darling. The Ellen after Evesham was a silent, shadowy wraith, looking out upon the world with huge, haunted eyes, as if awaiting yet more grief. Nell feared for Ellen’s future most of all. Without a proper marriage portion, what sort of husband could she hope to find? No man of rank would take a wife without lands, a wife who might bring down upon him the enmity of the English Crown. They were not penniless, would be able to provide a marriage portion to tempt a knight. But to Nell, a King’s daughter, that was an unthinkable comedown for her child. How could she expect Ellen to be content with a mere knight, when she ought to have had a Prince?
It was in hopes of cheering her daughter’s spirits that Nell had sent her to Paris for a fortnight’s stay with Amaury. Ellen had returned that afternoon, but it was obvious the visit had not been a success. She’d been very subdued, shrugging off Nell’s attempts to draw her out. Nell had no better luck later in a circumspect interrogation of Juliana, the young Frenchwoman she’d engaged to act as Ellen’s maid. The two girls had taken an instant liking to each other, had become quite close in these months at Montargis. But Juliana could tell Nell little, other than what she already knew, that Ellen had not enjoyed herself at the French court.
Vespers were sounding when Nell heard the music echoing from their bedchamber. The harp had been a betrothal gift from Llewelyn, and Ellen had practiced so diligently that she was now quite proficient. The door was ajar and Nell paused before it, listening to the melody. But then Ellen began to sing softly: “ ‘May thy prayers from Heaven aid us, Thou whose bitter death hath laid us, now defenseless and forlorn.’ ”
Nell stiffened, for the words were familiar to her; it was one of the many songs written about the battle of Evesham. She waited until the music died, and then pushed the door all the way open. Ellen was sitting on the bed, with her ever-present briard stretched out beside her. She looked up as Nell entered, hastily ordered the dog onto the floor. “Whilst I was at the French court, I learned a new song about Papa, called ‘Lament for Earl Simon.’ Do you want to hear it, Mama?”
Nell shook her head, but Ellen was already reaching for the harp. “ ‘But by his death, Earl Simon hath in sooth the victory won. Like Canterbury’s martyr, he there to the death was done—’ ”
“Ellen, enough!” Nell drew a deep breath. “I did not mean to speak so sharply, lass, but in truth, I care not for such songs. Move over so I may sit beside you. I am indeed sorry that you found so little pleasure in your visit. Were you not well received at court? Louis and Marguerite have—”
“No, it was not that. The French King and Queen were very kind. People were friendly, but…but they stared at me so, Mama!”
“You must get used to that, darling. Pretty girls always attract stares. But they also stare at you because you are Simon de Montfort’s daughter. And that, too, you must learn to accept.”
Ellen was silent, twisting a loose strand of hair around her finger, a new nervous habit Nell had been laboring in vain to break. “Mama…Amaury told me that the Countess of Devon is now insisting that she was always loyal to the King. And she even claims that she never welcomed Bran’s advances, that he forced them upon her! How can she lie like that?”
“Very easily, it seems,” Nell said acidly. “Is that what upset you so?”
“I was angered by her lies. But no, Mama, it was not the Countess of Devon. It was Amaury. He says…he says he is going to Italy!”
“I know. He wants to study religion and medicine at the University of Padua. Ellen, do not look so forlorn! Italy is not Cathay; he’ll be back.”
“But Mama, Italy is so far away. I feel as if we’re being blown about by the wind, that we’ll never be together again. Guy is in England, Richard in Bigorre, and Bran…”
She stopped, and Nell finished for her. “And Bran is in Normandy, seeking to raise troops to relieve Kenilworth Castle. You know that, lass, read his letter—”
“I know what he wrote, Mama, but I still do not understand why he has not come to see us, not once!”
“Ellen, I’ve told you that your brother blames himself for what happened at Evesham. He is not yet ready to face us—”
“But we’ve forgiven him and he knows that!”
“Yes, we’ve forgiven him. But he has not been able to forgive himself, and until he does…” She paused, for Ellen was no longer listening. Rolling over, she buried her face in a pillow. Nell sighed, softly stroked her hair. She suspected that every family had its own alliances, its shifting coalitions dictated by age or need or affinity. In their family, it had always been Harry and Bran, Bran and Harry. Brothers in blood, twins in spirit, so closely attuned that they could finish each other’s sentences, so habitually together that to see Bran was to look about for Harry. It had been an exclusive intimacy, though, by its very nature excluding their brothers. Only Ellen had been admitted into that charmed circle, an indulged if unequal member of a very select society, one more casualty of Evesham.
“It is not fair, Mama, not fair…” Ellen’s voice was muffled by the pillow, and Nell had to shove the briard back, for the big dog was determined to jump upon the bed and comfort its young mistress. “Was it not enough that I lost Papa and Harry? Must I lose Bran, too?”
Nell reached over, slipped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “You’ve not lost Bran, but you must be patient with him, Ellen. Sit up now, and I shall brush your hair and share some news with you. Whilst you were gone, I had a letter from your cousin Joanna.” Ellen looked blank, and Nell added, “Joanna de Quincy, lass, Elen’s daughter, remember?”
Ellen nodded, with no real interest. “Humphrey de Bohun’s widow,” she said, and Nell frowned; must the child identify everything in terms of death?
“Yes,” she said briskly, “Humphrey’s widow. You must never think, Ellen, that all people are as faithless as Isabella de Fortibus. The Londoners could give the lady Countess of Devon a sharp lesson in loyalty. Joanna wrote that there was a riot in London on the sixth of May, that men burst into the guildhall, crying their continuing support for Thomas Fitz Thomas, demanding that he be released from prison. It availed them naught, of course; they were dispersed by force. But I am sure it comforts Fitz Thomas to know that the Londoners would risk so much on his behalf. Just as it comforts us that men still hold your father in such esteem.”
Nell hesitated then, for while her next bit of news was sure to hearten Ellen, there was a risk in imparting it. As always, she chose to gamble. “Joanna also had most welcome news from Wa
les. Llewelyn has won a great victory over the most detestable of the Marcher lords. On Whitsun Eve, he defeated the army of Roger de Mortimer at Brycheiniog. Whilst de Mortimer lamentably escaped with his life, he was one of the few who did, fled the field with his ambitions and his honor—such as it is—in tatters.”
The mere mention of Llewelyn’s name had been enough to dry Ellen’s tears. “Oh, Mama, what wonderful news! I knew Llewelyn would avenge his dead, I knew it! Will he write and tell us of his triumph?”
“Yes, Ellen, I am sure he will,” Nell said slowly, all the while thinking that it might be better for her daughter if Llewelyn did not.
Compline had ended; the church was hushed and dark, lit only by a single torch in the choir. This was Nell’s favorite hour, the only time she had to be alone with her God and her husband. Carrying a horn lantern, a wine flagon, and an embroidered prayer cushion, she moved from the nave into the choir, then on into the Lady Chapel. Kneeling before the altar, she sought to empty her mind of rancor, to open her soul to God’s healing. For a long time, her prayers had been forced, recited by rote, devoid of comfort. But as winter thawed, so, too, had her faith. If her prayers were not as heartfelt, as ingenuous as they’d been before Evesham, that was a secret she shared with no one, not even God. She had not lost belief, and it seemed to her that the Almighty could ask no more than that, for if she now paid her debt of devotion with a devalued coin, the debt itself was no longer free from doubt—not after Evesham.
Now she prayed for her husband’s soul, the souls of the daughter dead in Bordeaux and the son dead at Evesham. She prayed for the parents she’d never truly known, and for those she’d loved—Elen and Rob de Quincy, Joanna and Llewelyn, the Bishop of Lincoln, her sisters, her cousin Will, who’d died at Mansourah. And lastly, she prayed for the dead of Evesham, for Peter and Hugh and Humphrey and all the men who’d ridden out to die with Simon.
When her prayers were done, Nell moved the cushion, wine flagon, and lantern to the other side of the chapel, and settled herself comfortably before the memorial stone she’d obtained for her husband. “I am worried about Ellen,” she confessed. “I fear, Simon, that she is deluding herself, clinging to false hopes. I have explained why the Welsh Prince disavowed the plight-troth, and she says she understands. Yet I wonder if that’s truly so. She makes music with his name, just as she does with his harp, and with the least encouragement, she’ll dwell upon his exploits by the hour. I can see why she’d be loath to lose Llewelyn, too, after losing so much. But it makes me most uneasy, my love. If she is harboring fantasies, envisioning Llewelyn as her rescuer, as the gallant hero of a chivalric romance, she’s going to be dreadfully hurt. I’ve always been fond of Llewelyn, but he is no Lancelot, no Tristan, if such men ever—”
She stopped, head cocked toward the choir. But the footsteps soon receded, and she relaxed, picked up the flagon. “Last week one of the nuns overheard me talking to you, and now all the sisters are convinced that I, too, pray to the saint of Evesham. Only a nun could be such an innocent. Any other woman would have laughed, knowing no wife could ever see her husband as a saint!”
Nell laughed, too, but then she set the flagon down, untasted. “Scriptures say that blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. But when? Simon, I miss you so much. Some days are better than others, and some are bad beyond belief. Your birthday, our wedding date. April first was the worst, I think, for that was the last night we spent together. And I expect that August fourth shall be the hardest day of all. But as much as I dread it, I sometimes wonder if the pain will lessen after that. Now I torment myself by thinking that this was your last Christmas, your last spring. Mayhap if I can say it’s been a year since Evesham, mayhap then…”
Nell reached out, traced with her fingers the name engraved upon the stone. There were times when she felt Simon’s presence so strongly that she could almost believe he was about to walk through the door; occasionally she even imagined she heard his footsteps. But there were other times, like tonight, when she felt very much alone, when memories were a poor substitute for the flesh-and-blood embraces of a man she’d loved for more than half her life.
“Elen de Quincy once told me about something Llewelyn Fawr did after my sister Joanna died. Elen said he had trouble sleeping—until he began to use Joanna’s pillow. So I found one of your old mantles—the dark green wool—and I spread it across my bed at night. It sounds mad, I know, but Llewelyn was a clever one, beloved, for it does help—a little.”
Usually she took comfort from these quiet conversations with Simon, but tonight there was none. She made no move to go, though, for only an empty bed awaited her. She was reaching for the flagon when a door slammed, footsteps sounded in the nave. Too heavy a tread for a nun; Father André? Nell got wearily to her feet. But the shadow cast upon the choir wall was too tall for the priest. She raised the lantern, suddenly cautious. “Who goes there?”
“It’s me, Mama.”
The voice, so familiar and yet the last one she’d have expected to hear, froze her in mid-step. “Guy?” she whispered, disbelieving until he moved into the light. “Dear God!”
“No…Guy,” he said, redeeming a lame joke with a truly dazzling smile. And then she was in his arms, and they were both laughing through tears, holding fast.
Still trying to catch her breath, Nell reluctantly stepped back, studying his face with hungry eyes. “I cannot believe you’re here! Why did Edward not write me that you were to be freed?”
He smiled again, this time with a glint of malice. “It came as a surprise to Ned, too.”
“You escaped?”
He nodded proudly. “The fools moved me from Windsor to Dover—Dover! They might as well have chosen Kenilworth. Papa’s support was always greatest amongst the men of the Cinque Ports, and Evesham has not quenched their fervor. It was easy to find a friendly guard, so easy it took all the fun out of my escape! We picked a cloudy night, the Thursday after Easter, and by dawn, we were out of the castle, out of the town, aboard a fishing boat bound for France. By the time I was missed, we were under sail.”
“The Thursday after Easter,” Nell echoed. “That was April twenty-second, nigh on a month ago. Where have you been all this time? Why did you not come to us at once?”
“What I had to do could not wait. I went to Normandy,” Guy said, suddenly grim, “to look for Bran.”
Nell’s hand tightened on his arm. “Did you find him?”
He nodded. “In Rouen.” He’d moved out of reach, had begun to pace. Whether by heredity or emulation, Simon’s sons shared his restless habits, his inability to be still for very long. “During those long weeks at Windsor, when I was lying bedridden, weak as a mewing kitten, with no company but my own thoughts, I would sometimes pass the hours, Mama, by imagining what it would be like—that confrontation with my right beloved brother. And I entertained myself by arguing the reasons—pro and con—for killing him.”
He heard Nell’s indrawn breath, and swung back toward her, at once contrite. “Ah, Mama, I did not mean it, no matter how often I sought to convince myself I did. But my bitterness was real enough—and justified, by God!”
“What happened, Guy, in Rouen?”
“Bran…Bran offered no excuses. He faced my rage without flinching. In truth, I think he’d not have defended himself even if I’d drawn my sword. And I saw then that Bran and I had both been wounded at Evesham. But my injuries healed, and his have not.”
“Is Bran still in Rouen?” At least now they’d know where to write, Nell thought, but Guy was shaking his head.
“No, Mama, he’s here…at Montargis. I convinced him it was time to face you, no easy task, I’ll admit. He’s waiting for you out in the church.” Nell whirled; she’d only taken two quick steps, though, before Guy blocked her path. “Mama…”
Nell’s smile was both wry and understanding. “You need not fret, lad. If I could forgive Almighty God, how could I not forgive my own son?”
The nave was dark,
and Nell felt an anxious pang; had he gone? But then he moved away from the door, into the moonlight, and she could not stifle a gasp. Of all her sons, Bran most resembled his father, for unlike his brothers, he, too, was clean-shaven, and he looked so like the Simon of her lost youth that Nell found herself unable to speak. Misreading her silence, he took a backward step, and she cried out his name, held out her arms.
He came, hesitantly, as if he no longer had the right. “Mama, I—”
“Hush, love,” she said, “hush,” and then they were clinging tightly, in an embrace both anguished and yet exultant, too, a survivor’s embrace. When they finally moved apart, Nell raised her hand, wiped tears from her face, and then, from Bran’s. By now, Guy had reached them, and she turned toward him, too, saying huskily, “Come. It’s time we awakened Ellen.”
“It’s late, Mama. Ought we not—”
“No, Guy, this is no night for sleeping. This is a night for talking, for remembering, for grieving, and for rejoicing, a night for calling up our ghosts.” For a moment, her eyes lingered upon Bran’s face. “Yes,” she said, “when we speak of Simon and Harry, it will hurt, and we’ll weep. But we’ll laugh, too.”
“Mama?” Ellen sounded sleepy, bewildered. “It’s so late,” she yawned. “What is amiss?”
“Nothing is wrong, love. Here, put on your chemise; we have visitors.”
Ellen obeyed, struggling to get her arms into the sleeves of the garment. “I do not understand,” she said, and then, “Mama, wait!”
Nell ignored the protest. “For these guests, Ellen, a chemise will do,” she said with a grin, and pulled the bed-hangings back.
“Mama, my hair is not even combed! I—Bran!”